Midnight Reflections
by saffroncremebrulee
Summary: Part 3/7. Anzu loses and finds her cartouche at the dance studio. Someone made an addition. Short, bittersweet Revolutionshipping ficlet for Valentine's Day. One-shot.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own YGO. This is a work of fiction, inspired by a wonderfully lush piano version of Rachmaninov's _Vocalise_. Try listening as you read. :)

The cartouche sequence was inspired by a few stories I binged on, so it's not an original plot device.

If you like squinting, this can be read as a short in-between of _Lights_ and _Nights_. Otherwise, just a bittersweet ficlet for Valentine's Day.

* * *

_Step. Turn. Arabesque._

_Step. Twist. Pirouette._

Piano- soft and gentle- swells from the speakers in the corner of the dance studio. I weave my limbs to its sweet, hypnotic melody, soaring with its crescendos. Rhythm sweet, beat tender, bass lush. The undercurrents entrance as they shape me.

I lose myself in the hauntingly beautiful harmonies. Dulcet tones layered together; pieces of my heart I have yet to glue back together. A song of love found, love lost, love mourned. All too brief vignettes of amethyst eyes and golden sand. Symphonies of friendship treasured, tears buried, emotion hidden. All captured in flashes of memories- so many recollections- dazzling in the moonlight as music bends me through time and space.

Choreography is a funny thing. It's an enigma for many dancers, but not me. Not since _he_ left, anyway.

Notes have been calling me since Egypt. Shapes come to me- unbidden and insistent- and my body obeys with lines and forms. Music speaks to me me in a language no human ever will again. He's gone now; all I hear now are the melodies he left behind. My body follows them like a marionette- graceful, pliant, and unquestioning- moving to a conductor whose only direction is instinct. The rhythms coax my senses- music fashioning my form and I move to beats of my (his? ours?) heart.

_Madame _tells me I dance as if possessed by emotion. Judges inform me I'm technically perfect but overly emotive. They may be right. I wouldn't know. I can only see pieces of myself when I dance. If I squint, I can sometimes spot myself in the kaleidoscope of lights in the mirror, but, in times like this, I only want to feel.

If possession transforms my broken heart into a symphony of grace than yes, I am possessed and I revel in my possession.

I dance for the melodies inside my (our?) heart. The music becomes me. My limps display my grief for all to see.

I dance because I must. It's the only way to process the feelings that swirl around me like so many reflections as I spin. The music beckons and I answer its every call.

The harmonies direct and I follow. First my arms in a graceful semi-circle above me- half a lifetime ago, standing at the boat's hull, desperately looking for words that never left my lips. Next my back in a delicate arch, forever reaching for a face that haunts my dreams. Finally my legs in a series of precise but fouettés, launching myself into a dizzying spin of reflections and mirages.

Spots of amethyst and gold whirl through the corner of my eye.

_Just my imagination, right?_

* * *

Afterwards, I sift through the contents of my locker. Every year I expect a small miracle on this day and every year I'm disappointed.

It's still the same, cold metallic sheen that reflects my sweat-streaked face. My dancer's bun is matted and wet; dark circles of exhaustion decorate my face. I feel my way through boxes of lambswool and ointment, my fingers searching for the only possession I carry everywhere but the stage.

I freeze.

The lights inside my heart flicker.

_It's empty_

Empty like the dance studio. Empty like the streets. Empty like my sou-

_No. _

_This can't be. _

I can't lose the only part of him I have left.

And then something shimmers into being in my hand. Moonlight strikes the surface.

It's the same cartouche. Scrolls of ivory on the edges and a thin chain dangling from my fingers.

Only the surface wasn't empty anymore. Carvings glittered blue and amethyst in the darkness.

It's not his name- that's already engraved in my heart- but something else altogether:

_Beloved._

* * *

**Thoughts?**

Spotting, in case you're wondering, is a technique where the performer picks a spot in the room to focus on as he or she spins for equilibrium. In real life you would never spot a mirror because of there are way too many reflections, but it worked here so I spun with it.


End file.
